


it's a heavy load [that i bear]

by ModernMyth



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Friendship, M/M, References to Depression, just let me live, q and margo both miss eliot a lot, q finally opens up, q finally tells someone about their mosaic quest, some vague time after 4.05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernMyth/pseuds/ModernMyth
Summary: I’m not going to let you rot and wither away. It’s the absolute last thing Eliot would want.In which Eliot is still trapped in the Monster, the questers are all a mess, and Margo checks in on Quentin.





	it's a heavy load [that i bear]

**Author's Note:**

> Sometime after 4.05. Use your imagination.

Quentin is awoken from his early evening depression nap by Margo unceremoniously plopping herself down on his bed, clutching a bottle of top shelf tequila and taking a swig. With a sigh, she passes it to him.

He begrudgingly sits up, rubbing his eyes, and leans against his headboard, accepting the bottle and taking a long pull from the mouth. He splutters a little, coughing, and hands the bottle back. The liquor is harsh on his throat, and he realizes he can’t remember the last time he had a glass of water.

“What are you doing here, Margo?”

She gives him a sad, fleeting smile. “Checking on _you_ , dumbass. Everybody is worried about you, Quentin.”

He pauses. “Enough that they contacted you all the way in Fillory?”

The corners of her lips quirk upwards. “That hedge bitch friend of yours is finally starting to grow on me, you know? She cares about you, Q. Enough to seek help from the High King of another realm, apparently.”

“I don’t need help,” he mutters bitingly, then snags the tequila bottle from her hands.

“ _Right_ ,” she scoffs. “Because being in bed in the dark at 6:30 on a Saturday night absolutely _screams_ prime mental health.”

Quentin gives her a dark look and takes another swig from the bottle.

“So,” Margo starts in a tone that leaves no room for argument, “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, I fucking figured. But you and I both know I’m not leaving here until we talk about at least a _few_ of the elephants in the room.”

“Margo,” Quentin sounds desperate now, lost and _scared_. “I can’t. I just... _can’t_.”

She frowns, then puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna have to, Q. Because I’m not going to let you rot and wither away.” She shakes her head. “It’s the absolute last thing Eliot would want.”

He can’t help but let out a choked sob at the sound of his name.

Quentin swallows hard around the lump in his throat, and he thinks his hands might be shaking. “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Eliot’s not _here_.” He’s almost surprised by the bitterness in his tone. “And none of us know how to fix that.”

There is a long moment of silence, and Margo is misty-eyed when she finally replies, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

He supposes it was only a matter of time before someone asked. He’s always been an open book, like it or not. Quentin can’t look at Margo. He _can’t_. He doesn’t want to see the inevitable pity in her eyes.

A small, warm hand cups his cheek, then tilts his chin up. When he finally looks at her, breath caught in his throat, he finds no traces of the pity he so feared; only empathy and love, and something akin to heartbreak.

It’s the open vulnerability on Margo’s face that does it, that finally sets Quentin off. He blinks, and it takes him a few moments to realize that there are hot tears streaming down his face. The next thing he knows, Margo has him in her arms, and Quentin’s face is pressed into the soft skin of her neck, letting out a loud, guttural sob.

She runs her hands up and down his back in gentle, soothing motions. _Soothing_ isn’t a term Quentin expected he’d ever apply to _Margo_ , but he can see it now, the same protective sort of tenderness he’d watched her use with Eliot, time and time again. Never had he expected such affection directed toward himself.

Quentin breathes a sigh of relief.

If anyone can understand the loss he feels, soul-deep, it’s Margo.

She lets him cry himself out, and he needs it. Finds some small amount of relief in it.

Long minutes later, Margo’s voice is resolute when she speaks, “We’re going to get him back, Q. Somehow, we are going to figure this shit out, and we are _going_ to get Eliot back. There’s a way. There  _has_ to be.”

He finds himself nodding his head into the crook of her neck. She runs comforting hands through his hair, then lifts his head and once more makes Quentin meet her eyes.

“But, _sweetheart_ ,” Margo’s tone is soft but undeniably firm. “You’ve _got_ to keep fighting. _We_ have to keep fighting. We are going to figure this shit out, okay? We’ll save Eliot, kill the monster, and get our fucking lives back. And then you two can finally get over yourselves and confess your undying love to one another. Sound good?”

He wants to say - _yes,_ _of course -_ he would give literally anything to save Eliot, anything at all, but he also thinks, _no, no, no_ , if only that could be how that actually works - if only that was a _god damn possibility_. Quentin already made his move, months ago. His feelings are not reciprocated. _Proof of concept_ , he thinks, _Fifty years_. He has tried this before, and he has had his heart broken.

Quentin doesn’t know why he’d been surprised. He’s used to disappointment; he should have seen the rejection coming. Just when he thought he’d found something real, something safe, his life fell apart around him again.

Looking into soft and understanding eyes, he doesn’t know if it’s the tequila or the depression or some sort of magical anomaly, but finally, _finally_ , Quentin starts talking.

“Margo?”

His voice is quiet.

“Hmm?”

“Did Eliot ever tell you about the mosaic?”

Margo draws in a sharp breath of recognition. “The beauty of all life, right?”

Quentin nods and takes a deep breath.

“I buried him.”

She looks at him with abject horror.

He wipes his eyes and brings the tequila bottle to his lips one last time.

Swallowing hard, he adds. “I’m sorry.”

He reaches for her hand and lightly squeezes it.

Margo threads her fingers through his in response, then nods in encouragement.

Quentin clears his throat.

“Let me start from the beginning…”

 

 

 

 


End file.
